


Step By Step

by BraTwo



Category: Spider-Man (Ultimateverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Venom - Fandom
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcoholism, Angst, Crossover, Disability, F/M, Flash Thompson's Pathetic Life Appreciation Fic, Fluff, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Multi, So much angst, Stalking, Ultimate Spiderman, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BraTwo/pseuds/BraTwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles Morale goes out as often as he can to try and get used to his new powers, patrolling the city for crime like his hero, Peter Parker. One night patrol leads him to the bar Flash Thompson happens to frequent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flash: The Loser

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my flatmate. I know Miles hasn't gotten much attention because he's new, but I hope this story will get people interested in his character.  
> Picture by: http://amberspirit.tumblr.com/

** Chapter One **

Flash hated winter. Hated the way the snow stuck to his wheelchair, making it almost impossible to move forward. That’s what life felt like all the time. He didn’t need the physical sensation to get that. Life fucked you over. It was always difficult to push through all the shit.

He hated the preparation needed just to go fucking outside. He wasn’t entirely used to his missing limbs yet, but he felt like he was getting there. Usually he just pulled on his old clothes, the long trails of empty fabric past his knees were easily tucked up underneath him. Sitting on them meant he didn’t have to worry about them.  That was fine in the summer, and even in the fall when temperatures started to drop. But in winter, he had to make the effort to twist the ends of his jeans up. He didn’t want snow to get in against his joints. He knew the doctors said they were healed, but they were constantly tender. Parts of his body were exposed that should never have been exposed. If he pressed down he could feel the bone of his thigh sticking out, wondering where the rest of his leg had gone. He wondered that too sometimes.

The nightmares about the accident were so vivid that sometimes he felt like he was just waking up into another dream world- one where God was laughing at him; torturing him just to make people stare. Poor Flash Thompson. He’d never be a jock again. He’d never stand again. He struggled to piss on his own.

He had prosthetics, but he didn’t like wearing them. They put pressure on his bones and rubbed his muscles like sandpaper. Back in the early days, when he’d tried to become normal again, he’d often find his wounds reopening whenever he put the false legs on. Eventually he gave up trying to be normal. Even if he wore them, people still stared at him- stared at the gate in his walk, the stiffness of legs that everybody knew weren’t his.  He’d rather have them stare at him for what he was, rather than his pathetic attempts at trying to be like them.

They rested in his wardrobe now. He kept them only a memory of his failure. One he’d get to glance at every time he opened the doors to get changed. It added to his self-hate each time he shut the door as well, because the doors of his wardrobe were mirrors. He got a good glance as his pathetic body as he turned away from the one thing that might have helped him feel a little better about himself.

Since he had locked them away he had only pulled them free once. His thigh muscles had wasted away from lack of use, so the prosthetics no longer fitted. He’d gritted his teeth and simply pulled the straps tighter. The legs had jutted out like a doll’s- colourless, smooth plastic. He had taken a deep breath and allowed himself a stupid thought of hope before pushing up off the armrests of the wheelchair. For a second he was up. He was tall again. Lightheaded with the feeling he had almost smiled. Then the pain had shot up his bones, the balance was tilted and he went down.

Lying on the floor wasn’t unusual. Before he’d joined the army he’d often wake up on the floor, in pools of his own vomit, in the bathroom, in alleyways, in stranger’s beds… That part of his life was supposed to be over. The army was supposed to change him- make him different to how his father had been. It had conditioned his mind. But he guessed the Thompson genes won out in the end. What was a Thompson without a beer in their hand? Nothing, that’s what.

Flash had always been a nothing.  His father had drilled that into him early on. In a way, he was glad his father had been truthful with him. Maybe Harrison had some sort of sixth sense- powered by drunken rage- that made him see how useless his son was going to become?  Better to beat out the hope in him so that he doesn’t make a fool of himself by trying.

Flash had panted against the floor. Maybe he’d been trying to hold back tears. Maybe he just didn’t want to move. Betty had heard the noise and came upstairs, banging on the door for him to let her in. Maybe he snapped something back at her, but when he’d pushed the prosthetics back into the wardrobe and gone downstairs, there was a note on the table from her saying she wouldn’t be back.

She had come back. And left again. Several times. Flash couldn’t even hold onto a girlfriend. And when he did have her, he didn’t want to have sex with her. Betty claimed his legs didn’t bother her, but she always wanted to be underneath him, always wanted him to thrust down inside her knowing it put pressure on his thighs. She wanted Flash to be a man, and he couldn’t be that.  Flash had long since figured out that she only wanted him to be over her, so she could pretend his legs were there. On top of him, she’d always liked to brush the soles of her feet against the back of his knees.

It was easier just to ignore her advances. That was the most common reason for the fights, and for her leaving. The only reason she came back was because she felt obligated now. If you lend your toy to a friend and it comes back broken, do you throw the toy away? Or do you hold onto it for a while and try to pretend it’s not broken?

She probably felt pressured by the neighbourhood; the people who judged her for leaving him. Leaving poor Flash alone when he’s got no legs.

Life was better without Betty around anyway. No one to accuse him about drinking, even if he was starting to drink more and more now. Why not? If everyone thought he was drinking again, why not give them the evidence they’re looking for. Someone needed to be the bottom of the ladder, to make everyone else feel better about themselves. Flash didn’t mind being that person anymore.

That was where he was heading to: a bar. There was one not too far from his apartment, but still far enough away from people he knew. The bartender wouldn’t judge him when he asked for a drink.

He could easily get there within an hour on his wheelchair. No need to drag himself on the bus and embarrass himself even further. Those disability spaces were always full of prams and screaming babies anyway. They deserved it more than Flash did.

No. He would use the streets to get to his destination.  He’d heard vans out earlier that morning, showering the icy paths with grit, so hopefully it wouldn’t be too bad. He didn’t mind about on the way to the bar, but he didn’t plan on coming home entirely sober. And as bad as he felt… he didn’t really want to die over-tuned on his wheelchair in the snow, freezing to death.

He guessed he wanted to go back and die in action. Go back and tell the doctors that they weren’t going to take his legs, even if it did kill him. Dying for your country was the way to go. He’d have died a hero.

Laughing at himself in the mirror, Flash shook his head and leant back, arching his hips off the edge of the bed and dragging his jeans up with a small grunt. Getting dressed had been a nightmare in the beginning, but now it was just a minor chore.  The end of his thighs had already been covered by socks, pulled tight against his skin to keep the chill out. He sat back down and leant over himself, twisting his jeans shut and clipping them into place. He had often considered cutting his jeans short, getting Betty to sew them in on themselves, but the image he conjured up in his head reminded him of baby-grows . He stuck with the twisting and pinning technique…

Reaching over, he dragged his wheelchair just close enough to shift his body into it. The blanket underneath his ass provided some padding, since it hurt to be sitting on your ass the whole day, but it was only a minor luxury he allowed himself. Wheeling himself over to the wardrobe, he took a brief glance at his reflection, running his fingers through his blonde hair and over his tired eyes.  
  
He let them trace down his chest. Although his legs had begun to waste, he’d bought a set of weights to train with at home, to keep his upper body strong enough to shift his useless body around. He wasn’t brave enough to go to a public gym and this way was cheaper anyway.

Flash liked to make excuses for himself. Brave enough to go to war, but not brave enough to be surrounded by men with bodies like the one he used to have. The envy in his stomach had made him physically sick before just thinking about it.

Flash had changed a lot since high school; since the war.

Shaking his head, he dragged his shirt on and then his coat, heading towards the door. A pat down of his pockets confirmed he had his wallet and his keys; he left his phone to avoid Betty if she called. Then he was on his way, hoping that tonight wouldn’t be a waste of time.

He had always been involved with woman. He had been attractive, athletic and popular as a teenager- three key components that let him breeze through high-school with a relative ease. A charming smile got you a long way back then. Girls had been all over him. Even though he had only settled enough to acquire a few girlfriends, his night-time conquests had been up on the leader board. He had started to run out of girls to seduce.  He and some of the other guys from the football team had travelled around the city together, frequenting bars with their fake IDs and seducing women with rings already on their fingers.

Older now, he still had his good looks (his father’s genes hadn’t failed him there) but now the women he frequented were more the type that demanded money- the type that didn’t stare at his legs. They probably serviced a lot of men from the war- the ones too traumatised to be satisfied with their normal, pretty wives anymore.

The new Flash didn’t care about who he went home with at night anymore. If Betty was gone, then as long as someone was willing to come home with him, he was fine. He wasn’t judgmental like he used to be- back when sex was used to impress everyone around him. Now sex was used just as a means to maybe forget (just for a second) that any of this shit had happened to him. The second his orgasm hit, his mind was wiped and he could pretend he was anyone.

Then reality hit hard when he fished money out of his wallet, or watched the girl start to redress, trusting them not to steal from the poor cripple as they left his home. Only a couple of the girls stayed the night, resting into his chest like they might belong. Betty slept with her back to him all the time, wanting him to hold around, to protect her. Flash found it more comfortable to lie on his back, staring up the ceiling. Betty complained about that as well.

It wasn’t Betty’s fault though. If anything, Flash wanted her to move on, find someone to marry who could love her properly. They weren’t in a relationship anymore; it was a twisted convenience of guilt that kept them coming back together.

Flash had definitely changed. He’d started sleeping with men. Not frequently, but back when he was a teenager he would have died before lingering on emotions about other boys. He would have beaten up anyone for so much as suggesting he’d ever do anything with another man. He never admitted the truth to Betty. He didn’t need her prattling on about AIDS and God. Flash was aware of the risks and was always prepared. He didn’t fuck anyone, man or woman, without a condom.

It wasn’t until he’d gotten back from the war that he’d experimented. It was around the time he’d started drinking, but he hadn’t been drunk when it had happened. Maybe if he’d been drunk it wouldn’t have hurt as much as it had. Maybe he wouldn’t have enjoyed it if it hadn’t hurt... There had been something intimate about letting someone tear him open like that. It felt like fighting- something he was used to.

It had been almost a year since his last encounter with a man. Flash always went out to bars looking for girls. He was attracted to girls- their bodies, their faces. What he wanted from a man wasn’t simple to describe. He couldn’t even fathom an explanation himself.  The few times he had been with another man, he’d woken up feeling like the world’s largest disappointment. Like his father had been watching him the whole time from the corner of the room, wondering how he possibly could manage to fuck up his life even more.

He hadn’t been with a man since he’d lost his legs. He’d barely been able to look at them without jealousy burning through him.

He reached the bar in under an hour. That was good, even with the snow filling up over the ground. He was getting stronger- even without wearing the suit. The door to bar was around the corner, just off the street down a side alley. The neon sign hanging above the entrance was modest in comparison to the garish crap that littered the buildings of the main street.

There was no ramp, but Flash didn’t have a problem manoeuvring up the singular step. Not when a drink was offered on the other side of it.

The bar smelt like ale and smoke. The warmth wasn’t only just on his face, but felt like it went through his whole body. He rolled over to the bar; ignoring the stares he got along the way. He supposed it was only natural to stare. When he was younger he would done more than just stare. He would’ve cracked jokes at anybody who was different, just to remind them that he was better than they were. Well, funny that… He didn’t feel much better than them now. He guessed that was karma.

The bar wasn’t low enough for disabled people, but it almost made Flash feel better. This bar wasn’t making an effort to pity him. He looked up at the bartender, “Usual, please.”

The man nodded and left Flash to brush the snow from his blonde hair and shoulders. Flash made a quick check of the bindings around his thighs as he waited, retwisting his jeans back into place and shifting out of his coat. The letters that spelt out ‘ARMY’ across his chest weren’t boastful. They were convenient. He got dressed based on what was easy and what was nearby.

He took his beer when it was offered, handing over a few dollars in exchange.  The first sip soothed his nerves more than anything the world ever could. He knew there was something wrong with him when alcohol had become the answer to everything, but the world became suddenly very perfect when he drank. For a moment all that mattered was him and that drink.

It was only when he was about halfway through it that he took the time to check out the other people in the bar with him; like picking out a victim. Would someone be going home with him tonight? It wasn’t that late yet, but there were a few dedicated veterans to the cause- people Flash recognised from Alcoholics Anonymous. They offered him a nod of understanding, their own drinks clutched tightly. Flash knew that feeling- that someone might notice you have a problem and try to fix you, take the drink from you forcefully. 

A couple of underage girls were sipping at drinks they had probably flirted their way into getting; small groups of students were gathered around in the booths.  Some sort of cheesy jazz song was playing- a pretty, blonde girl playing with the buttons on the jukebox. Flash took a sip of his drink before heading over to her. He placed his drink on the nearest ledge.

“I hope you’re planning on changing the song,” he offered her a smile. His mother always complimented his smile. Said it was the smile that his father used on her all the time. A smile that trapped women.

The girl did what most of them did, turning around to down-talk whatever asshole had decided to interrupt her, pausing when was met by empty space before looking down. She stared for a moment.

He flashed her another smile, “Hey there, gorgeous.”

She blushed. God bless her. “Oh sorry. I didn’t see-” _‘you were disabled’_ came off in her body language. Flash could try and work with that.  It was almost cute, but he decided to give her a break.

“I’m Flash,” he introduced himself, holding out his hand towards her.

The girl’s politeness won out and she reached out to shake his hand. “Hi,” she said, tucking some of her hair back behind her ears. They were a little big. “I’m Amanda.” She had a heart shaped necklace hanging down across her chest, drawing his eye down.

Flash wondered if that was her real name. She seemed like a nice girl- maybe he should put his insecurities away for the evening and give her the benefit of the doubt. “A pretty name for a pretty face,” he charmed.

Amanda gave a small laugh, but didn’t seem to be going anywhere in this conversation. Flash pushed a little harder. One more chance; if this didn’t work, she wasn’t interested. It wasn’t unusual for him to get rejected several times. Further into the evening people would get drunker. Their standards would drop…

“Do you need a dollar for the jukebox?” he asked.

Amanda blinked and then opened her mouth. It was the sign of a mouth ready to make an excuse and Flash had enough dignity to put his hand up, stopping her before she could speak. “It’s alright,” he said. “I get it. You must already have a boyfriend who’s willing to pay. Excuse me.” He picked up his beer and rolled back to the bar, leaving the girl alone.

He didn’t know if she had a boyfriend, but using that excuse always got him out of awkward flirting with girls that had no desire to sit on a cripple’s lap. Back at the bar his drink disappeared and another replaced it. Another replaced that, and then another replaced that. By that point the bar had darkened and the music had changed. Some kid had picked some kind of chart song on the jukebox and those underage girls were up dancing in the middle of the pub. Amanda and a bunch of others had joined in.

Flash felt his legs ache to dance where there was supposedly nothing to feel. He kept ordering drinks and the more he drank, the more he watched her. Amanda became more beautiful as the night went on, and he wondered if he might have a second go at flirting with her. She’d had a few more drinks by now. Perhaps he could be the person she regretted going home with that night.

It was something to aspire to.

Just when he was about to head over to chat with her again, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Another hand moved behind him and grabbed the handle of his wheelchair, sliding him around to face the perpetrator.

“Hey, hands of the steel,” Flash slurred, reaching to push the hands away from him. “Fucking creep. Can’t you see I’m DISABLED?” He always went on like this when he got drunk. Everything he was quiet about during the day just burst forth into every argument.

Maybe it was only when he was drunk that he could actually talk about being disabled. He could never avoid _being_ crippled, but talking about it was clearly a different manner.

“I’m the creep?” the guy laughed back. He was a half-blurred figured of some tall preppy jock type. The type Flash had been before his accident. “You’ve been staring at my girlfriend for almost an hour, you fucking perv. You’re the creep here.”  
  
The boy continued, “I’ve had a talk around the bar and we all want you out.” The douchebag moved around and started pushing Flash towards the exit. The snow had picked up and the wind was a sudden slap to the face.

The boy tilted Flash’s wheelchair up, emptying him out of it like a dustpan into the trash. With his motor functions ruined by the alcohol, Flash tumbled out easily. He hit the ground chest first, snow in his mouth, trapped in the stubble around his jaw. Turning himself over onto his back he glared up towards the entrance of the bar. “Fucking prick!” he snapped. “You want me to call the police?”  
  
The boy laughed, throwing the wheelchair out to the side, making sure it was out of Flash’s reach. “You’ve pissed yourself,” he informed, turning back into the bar and Flash heard him cheer himself for his victory.

Flash wanted nothing more than to be inside his suit right now- to charge back inside and rip that kid’s legs off. Just so he felt what it was like to be top dog, and have it literally ripped out from underneath him.

But Flash had other things to deal with. He _had_ pissed himself. Sometimes it happened when he was drunk. Losing his legs hadn’t messed with his bladder at all but every man lost control when they drank too much. It was totally normal. He could just pull the blanket from his wheelchair around his lap on his way home. His ass could deal with the hard seat for one journey.  
  
Coughing, Flash dragged himself up, ignoring the warm wetness around his crotch. It was almost pleasant in the cold air of the evening. His watch told him it was 11pm as he shifted over to grab his wheelchair, getting it back in the upright position clumsily. He’d gotten drunk far too quickly this evening. He didn’t even want to call a prostitute. He just wanted to go home and curl up in his bed.

Maybe he could sleep here. He probably wouldn’t bother anyone. He pushed his face down into the seat of the chair, letting out a tight sigh, shoulders shuddering from a sudden emotion that caught him off-guard.

What had fucking happened to his life that allowed him to be tossed out of a bar like garbage? He was in a fucking wheelchair. For all he tried to ignore people’s pity, it hit home tonight how it was the only source of human contact he really had. If people didn’t pity him, where the hell would he be?

Betty wouldn’t linger around, for sure. Hell, his own mother would probably rather sit at his father’s bedside than help him out. What would stop people from throwing him out of everywhere- just for being the eyesore of humanity, staring at girls he’d never had- because they wanted men who could walk. They probably assumed his dick wouldn’t work.

Flash gritted his teeth and slammed his fist into the wheelchair, sending it back into the wall of the alley. The blonde man slumped on his side, resting down against the ground, overtaken by the sudden urge to sleep. A voice knocked him out of it though, along with a hand shaking his shoulder.

“Uh… Hey mister… are you alright?”  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  


Miles didn’t make it a habit of trying to wake large, angry looking drunks… But this guy looked in pretty bad shape. For one, he was missing his lower legs. Miles couldn’t just leave him lying out in the snow like that. Peter Parker would’ve been ashamed if he had.

So he shook the man’s shoulder a little harder, ready to jump back in case the man really was an angry drunk. He smelt kind of bad- like booze and piss. As the man turned over onto his back with a groan, Miles saw where the smell was coming from.  “Oh, jeeze,” he mumbled, looking around before spotting the blanket. He threw it over the man to give him some dignity, and to help keep him warm. “Are you awake?” he asked, squatting down and leaning over to peer at the man through his mask.  
He seemed sort of familiar but Miles couldn’t think where from, until the man spoke. “Peter?” was the grunt that came, blue, blood-shot eyes flickering open to look around.

Oh. That was where Miles knew the other from. What was his name again? Something strange. Flare? Flannel? Flash? It was Flash, wasn’t it? Miles remembered because he had thought that the other’s bright blonde hair had matched that name- like a flashlight. He’d been at Peter Parker’s funeral.

He had certainly been in a much better state back then though. Miles grabbed Flash’s arm, tugging the other up into a sitting position against the wall.

“I’m not Peter-” Miles explained, “Are you alright? You didn’t fall or anything, did you?” He tried to speak clear and loudly, since he figured drunk people didn’t listen much. He peered into Flash’s eyes, trying to make sure that the other was focused on him. Apart from a few grunts every now and then, Flash seemed oblivious to the world.

He was pretty drunk. His breath stunk even worse than his clothes did.

“I’m going to try and get you into your chair, okay?” Miles would assume that the grunt in response was an ‘alright then’. He slipped his small arm behind Flash’s back and carefully pulled the man off the floor.

Flash was heavy but Miles had the extra strength to counteract it. The only difficult thing was compensating for Flash’s unique centre of gravity. Miles didn’t want to drop the other. He looked like he’d been dropped enough already.

With the older man grumbling into his ear (much of which he couldn’t understand, but he got the words ‘Peter’ and ‘asshole’) Miles managed to shift Flash into the chair, keeping the blanket over his lap to save him his dignity. Miles half expected there to be a seatbelt to keep the other in but then blushed under his mask and scolded himself for thinking such a thing. Flash wasn’t a baby.

But he hoped the other could stay in the seat. Sometimes when Miles saw people get drunk on TV they went all floppy and slipped off things. “You okay?” he asked then bit his lip. “I think I asked that already. I’m sorry I just- want you to be okay. Uh- where do you live?”  
  
Flash grunted and lifted his hand, gesturing to the main street. “There. Shut up kid. You’re giving me a headache,” he slurred.

Miles winced and supposed that he was being sort of annoying… but he doubted Flash liked sleeping on the ground. So he was going to take the other home. He pushed the chair towards the street. He didn’t think it would be wise to try and use web-travel or anything.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, looking around to check the street. It was empty anyway; people were at home or inside bars. With a small breath he pushed Flash forward, wondering what he was getting himself into.


	2. Miles: The Hero in Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the hits and kudos, guys :)

**Chapter Two  
Miles: The Hero in Training  
  
** “Are you sure this is your house?” Miles made a worried noise. He wasn’t sure if he should really trust Flash at this moment in time. The other had been mumbling gibberish the whole journey back- it seemed to consist of Flash complaining about a lot of stuff. A lot of it Miles was quite sure hadn’t even been English. Maybe Flash could speak German or something? Blonde was a German thing… wasn’t it? Or was that Swedish?

Wow. Miles was going off topic now. He really needed to learn to focus better. The teacher’s at school were always telling him that; that he was bright and could go places if he only applied himself. Miles wonders how they would all react if he told them he was the new Spiderman.  If he told them he’d spoken face to face with Nick Fury?

The new suit he’d been given fitted perfectly. He felt a lot better having his own suit. He was starting to become his own hero; not just a copy of Peter Parker. Not that Miles would have minded being a copy. Peter was his hero. He honestly couldn’t think of a better thing to do with his life than follow in the other’s footsteps. He didn’t ever want to seem insensitive. Really, it was all Ganke’s fault!

Miles looked down at the back of Flash’s head, wondering if the man had passed out. He shifted around to half crouch in front of the wheelchair, elbows on his thighs as he waited. Flash was breathing heavily, his chin tucked down against his chest. It made this little double chin and Miles smiled, leaning forward a bit.

“You’re not that scary, are you?”

Flash opened heavy eyelids and glared across at him.

Miles leant back quickly, “Okay. Maybe you are.” He stood for a moment and then stepped to the side, pointed up to the small house, “Is this where you live?”

“Yeah,” Flash slurred and then laughed. “This is the place. My palace. My Empirrre,” the blonde slurred.

Again, Miles wasn’t sure whether to believe him, but it was all he had to go on. He moved behind the wheelchair and pushed the man up towards the front door. It was a little bit of a hill but at least there weren’t any steps to try and negotiate the chair over. Miles was certainly stronger than before but he hadn’t ever practise manoeuvres like that. He didn’t want to end up throwing Flash to the ground by mistake.

“Where are you keys?” Miles asked, reaching over the other’s head to try the door handle. Flash obviously hadn’t been drunk that morning when leaving the house. It was locked pretty tight. Maybe Miles could break it open? But then how would he explain the broken door to the other in the morning?

A note? And what if the open door let burglars in or something?

Flash shifted again with a grunt, “Pocket, you jackass.”

Miles made a noise. “Can you get them out for me then?”

Flash grunted again, but this time Miles couldn’t make out the words. He stood for a moment by the wheelchair, wincing and scrunching up his face a little bit. He didn’t really want to shove his hand down inside the pocket of the other man. What if Flash regained his senses halfway through and started drunkenly yelling about getting… molested or something!

Miles was unlucky enough that if that did happen, there would also be someone with a camera hiding in the bushes to snap his picture. The headline the next morning would read ‘Spiderman: Hero or Pervert?’

Miles blushed under his suit, grumbling at his situation. He should’ve stayed inside tonight. Besides this incident with Flash, his night patrol had been surprisingly dull. Nobody wanted to commit crimes in the snow, it seemed.  Miles could understand that. His costume was a little on the thin side and the chill was starting to go right through him.

Talking about cameras, maybe Miles should think about getting Ganke to follow him around the city- snapping pictures of him being heroic. He didn’t want to seem like a show off, but it would definitely help him improve his stances and such. He could only get so far by copying pictures of Peter Parker in his bedroom. And gosh, hadn’t that been embarrassing when he’d been caught by his mother?

Ganke probably needed to get outside a bit more anyway. Miles knew how to work a computer but he had never used one to the extent his friend had. The chubbier boy sometimes sat for hours, clicking buttons and grumbling about people on the internet- people who were across the other side of the country. Or further.

Miles, although not an avid user of technology, was always amazed by that- the way you could talk to someone so far away, and become friends without ever meeting face to face.  Ganke often avidly talked about people he knew online;  gaming groups and ‘guilds’ that were in constant hate wars; people in different time zones that kept Ganke up until 4am whilst Miles and Jude tried to block out the light from the computer and actually get some sleep.

The interesting thing was that Ganke seemed to have no problem waking up early the next morning. Maybe he ran off some kind of battery power that he harvested from the computer whilst he was on it?

A sudden snow-mixed breeze of wind up the garden path reminded Miles that they’d been standing in Flash’s front garden for the better part of ten minutes. Flash was snoring now and Miles was half-certain he could slap the other and get no response.

He turned to take a quick look around the area, just to make sure **_absolutely_** nobody would see him do what he was about to do. The street was empty, the snow flickering across the sky and streetlamps scattering each flake’s shadow over the road. The place was silent.

“Thank goodness,” Miles mumbled, rolling his neck and shoulders, stretching himself out to sort of… mentally prepare for the task. He licked his lips under the mask, looking over the snoring figure. Flash was unaware of any mental torture Miles was going through right now. If Miles squinted, he could swear he saw the other’s drooling a bit.

The boy reached his hand forward, quickly patting down over the blanket to find out which side the keys were in. Luckily he found them first time. They were in the left, the pocket he was next to. Lucky again, Morales.

Time for step two. He took hold of Flash’s shoulder and gently tilted the man to the other side of the wheelchair, leaning him over so his hip pushed up, allowing Miles to reach the pocket more easily.

For some reason he held his breath as he pushed his hand down inside the other’s pocket. He wriggled around a bit, blushing harder at the embarrassment of doing something so personal to someone- not just because his hand was pushed up against this stranger’s thigh.

He pushed down a little further when he finally felt the keys. Gosh, Flash’s pockets seemed to go on forever for some reason. Miles curled his fingers down, gripping around the keys and pausing when the whole pocket suddenly became warm and wet at the bottom.

“Oh, jeeze, ew! That’s your- I’m sorry!” Miles’s face was burning hot underneath his mask. He pulled his hand quickly out of the pocket, shaking his fingers out, keys jangling in his grasp. “I didn’t mean to- I forgot you’d-“

Flash stirred at the loud stream of nonsense pouring from the young boy. “I thought I told you to shut up,” he slurred, shifting to sit back upright in the seat, tugging at the blanket until it was tucked up under his chin.

Miles couldn’t think of anything to do besides nod, taking the advice and shutting up fairly quickly. The keys were only a little wet but Miles chanted the phrase ‘It’s just water, it’s just water’ over in his head to make it easier. Luckily there was only one key, so he didn’t have to struggle trying to find the right one. He slipped it into the lock and wriggled it around until he heard the tell-tale click of entrance granted.

So Flash hadn’t been lying. This really was the other’s home.

He pushed the door open with his shoulder. It groaned in protest, a little stiff, but Miles didn’t feel the strain at all. He didn’t even think about his increase in strength anymore. In the beginning he’d had problems slamming doors and cupboards too hard. His mother had scolded him a lot for stuff like that, telling him to be careful. Now carefulness came naturally. Strength was manageable.

Miles quickly put the keys down onto the nearest table, rubbing his hands on his thigh muscles before turning back to get Flash’s wheelchair. He pushed the blonde inside and shut the door, letting out a sigh of relief.

The sigh quickly turned to a yelp of distress when he looked around Flash’s home.

It wasn’t like Miles’s own home at all, or like his school dorm. The house was large and fairly average from the outside, but inside the rooms seemed much, much bigger due to the fact that there was barely any furniture.

The couch looked pretty old and there was a coffee table facing an old looking TV- something that still had a VCR machine attached. Miles couldn’t see any videos lying around though, but maybe they were hidden away?

What **_was_** in generous supply was rubbish- most of it in the form of frosty green beer bottles.

The kitchen had the most bottles in it- piled high inside a small blue, plastic box with the three-curved recycle symbol stamped on the side. The bottles were gathered in a large bin bag, but Miles was pretty sure there was at least another bag of bottles just lying around the rest of the apartment.  The smell of stale beer was pretty powerful.

Oh well, at least Flash was recycle-conscious… right?

Miles tried not to judge. Maybe those bottles had never ever been put to the recycling? The rest of the house wasn’t exactly clean- things were littered all over the place. Maybe Flash couldn’t move the box to the curb or anything, so it had all just built up over the months.

Some of the bottles had stuff growing inside them- black lumps of mould. There was no way Flash could consume such a large amount of alcohol in just a couple of weeks. This was months’ worth of abuse.

Miles wasn’t sure if that made it any better.

He decided to focus on just getting the man to bed. He left Flash sitting in the wheelchair for a moment, moving around the house to check for a bedroom. There was a set of stairs, but nothing to help Flash get up and down them. Miles could only assume the first floor of the house was now redundant and never lived in.

He found the bedroom just behind the staircase, hidden at the back of the house. The room only had a bed and a dresser in it- a half open wardrobe making up the other side. Miles took a self-conscious second to check himself out in the mirror. Maybe he was too skinny, but the suit looked great. He felt like he was one step closer to becoming a ‘real’ Spiderman- a hero of his own.

Blinking, Miles noticed that the wardrobe was half open. Amongst the clothes hanging up, there was something smooth and human-like in the back, resting against the wall. Curiosity made him lean closer, and shock forced him back suddenly when he realised it was a pair of legs.

He shut the wardrobe and tried to forget about it. That was maybe something to fret over for another day. He was sure Flash wasn’t some kind of crazy killer, going around and stealing people’s legs because his own were missing.

He returned to the front of the house quickly and gently made a path through the odd pieces of rubbish and bottles to let the wheelchair get through.  Miles wasn’t practised with a wheelchair (a fact he’d found out earlier in the evening as he tried to negotiate Flash up and down several curbs) but he managed to get the other to the bedroom without incident.

Flash grunted a stream of words as Miles transferred his large frame to the bed. Miles let out his own grunt at the awkward weight, sort of accidentally dumping Flash on the bed a little roughly.

Flash didn’t seem to mind though. The large man shifted, his body stretching out. His legs acted as if they were still full length and Miles smiled at the thought of Flash imagining curling his toes up in delight. He couldn’t resist staring at the missing legs as the man shifted-there was something strange about the whole situation and he had trouble tearing his eyes away. But he did in the end.

It was rude to stare.

“Are you alright, Flash?” Miles asked, leaning over the bed- but not too close to Flash’s face. The smell of alcohol there was worse than it was in the apartment.

Flash’s body shifted on the bed suddenly and Miles leant back as the other groaned, the noise catching in the other man’s throat like the wind had been knocked out of him. Miles made a displeased noise. “You’re not going to be sick, are you?”

It was the only thing left to go wrong.

But the other man just turned over a bit and curled his thighs up towards his body; eyes flickering behind his eyelids and hands twitching gently in his sleep.

 Flash seemed alright… Maybe Miles could leave now. He was done with this. Missions complete, right?

Only he couldn’t seem to pull his eyes away from the man’s sleeping face. A few strands of blonde hair had fallen over his forehead and his eyebrows were furrowed together slightly- mind somewhere else, or maybe in a dream?

Miles shook his head out and checked the clock on Flash’s bedside. It was 12.43am. He really needed to get back to school if he was even going to have a hope of getting up in time for class. Flash would be fine. He’d do just fine without Miles around. What more could the young boy do anyway? Did he want to add ‘staring-at-you-whilst-you-slept’ to the ‘groping’?

No, he didn’t. Still, it felt bad to leave without saying anything. He stepped away from the bed, hoping to maybe find some kind of pad-and-pen set amongst the mess that littered Flash’s bedroom floor- maybe under an old shirt or something?

As he stepped further away, a hand suddenly reached out and grabbed onto him. Strong, thick fingers wrapped around his wrist but the tug pulling him back was gentle. The contrast struck Miles as something important, something rare. He turned back to Flash, the disabled man looking straight at Miles’s mask.

It felt like he was looking through it, like he could see every feature on Miles’s face. But then those sad blue eyes shut and Flash tugged again, “Don’t go, Peter…” he slurred, breathless as he turned his head down to look at the floor. Maybe he was too drunk to keep it up, but Miles had the sick feeling in his stomach that it was actually because Flash was ashamed to look him in the eye now that he believed him to be Peter.

Miles didn’t know what to do.

He stepped back toward the bed, gently prising Flash’s hand from his wrist and pushing the large man to lie flat. “Go to sleep,” he mumbled, licking his lips and trying to sound more like the Spiderman before him, the ghost Flash was imagining.

Flash mumbled something. The words got lost in his throat, in the drink, but the sound he made was clear enough. It was a lonely sound, like the wail a dog gives to the sky.

Miles felt like he’d seen something personal. Too personal. He should’ve left before this all happened. Flash was lying on the bed, his chest practically cracked open to let Miles see everything inside him. Miles felt like he was taking advantage without meaning to.

Like he was stealing.

Miles swallowed to try and force the uneasy feeling down, holding his breath and pushing the window open.   
  
It felt like he didn’t breathe until he got home, perched against the wall by his dorm window. He reached up and pulled the mask off, tearing it away and letting the wind blow at his face. He gasped, feeling his lungs fill with the cold air, and clenching his eyes shut.

But when he opened them again all he could see were those pleading blue eyes begging for him to be real- to be Peter Parker.

How could he ever live up to expectation like that…?


	3. Flash: Wake up and Face the World

**Chapter Three  
Flash: Wake up and Face the World**

Flash still had dreams. Sometimes.

Usually he dreamt of being in the suit, but before he’d enrolled in the symbiote project his dreams had always focused on walking. Memories that used to haunt him (of being a child and running down the street to get away from his father’s backhand) were suddenly made sweeter by putting the focus on his legs. It didn’t matter that he was running away, only that he was running in the first place.

He had dreams of playing football again, panting hard into the guard of his helmet as he bulldozed his way through people towards the goal. He dreamed of being victorious. But Flash supposed that what dreams were always about- lies.

Last night he’d dreamt of Peter Parker. As his mind slowly started to drift into consciousness, eyelashes flickering at the sun pouring in from the unshaded window, he recalled the other’s voice. More than that, he remembered the nerd’s smile.

He saw the red and blue of the other’s costume (although he’d never known about that detail when Peter had been alive) as he opened his eyes with a groan, fading to the brown of the other’s hair. His guts ached for Peter to be standing by his bed but he knew that was never going to happen. Peter Parker was in a box underground.

The only way Flash was going to see him again was if he joined him down there. He was probably on the right track for that though. Any day now.

After his vision stopped swimming, Flash was able to read that the time was 07.37. Hangovers hit him differently each time he drank; depending on what mixture he let burn down his throat the night before.  Today’s blend consisted of dehydration, sticky mouth and a headache that felt like an axe was imbedded in his head. He brushed his fingers up the back of his neck and over the curve of his skull, just checking. An axe in the back of his skull wouldn’t exactly be the worst thing to happen to him recently.

Although his mouth tasted like ass he was glad to discover that this hangover didn’t include nausea. Instead there was just a hunger deep in his guts that needed to be filled. He checked the clock again to make sure of the time. The local store opened at 8am every morning, so he could probably head down and catch a fry-up at the restaurant inside.

Betty was usually the one who cooked. All of Flash’s counters were still their full heights, the cooker included. He didn’t have the money or the desire to change everything in the house to suit his new circumstances, so they’d remained out of his grasp. Like everything else in his fucking life.

Sitting up, Flash felt a breeze on his face and turned. His bedroom window was open for some reason. Had he opened it in a drunken stupor last night? He was half-disappointed he hadn’t managed to throw himself out of it.

As he lifted his hand to rub his dry face, cracking his shoulders at the same time, suddenly every other part of his body flickered to life in his brain. It was hard to ignore that his groin was totally soaked.

“Fucking great,” he glared at the wall. How had he even managed to get home last night? Had everyone and their fucking grandmother seen his piss-stained crotch as he’d rolled himself home? Had he even done it by himself? Usually when he made his own way home, he made a half-assed attempt at getting changed for sleep, but he was still in his clothes. And if he’d been functional enough to get home last night, he liked to think he’d have taken off fucking soiled pants before climbing into bed.

Well this was a new record. He usually didn’t start hating himself until early afternoon.

Reaching down, he unbuttoned his jeans and untwisted the ends of his jeans from behind his thighs. His actions were careless, but right now he felt like he deserved to have his physical wounds torn open. At least then there would be evidence- an excuse- to justify how he felt. That it wasn’t just because he was a pathetic mess. People would look at see the cause for the pain on his face.

With all ties unbound, Flash lifted his hips up and pushed the soiled clothes off. His bare hips went down with a grunt of relief and he threw the jeans and boxers away. He threw his shirt away too. He didn’t look to see if they landed in the wash basket because really, piss on the carpet was the least of his problems right now.

Shifting into his wheelchair wasn’t hard. Whoever had taken him home last night had been considerate enough to leave it within an arm’s reach. Although Flash knew how to use his arms to get around, if needed. His aching head thought back to the day Betty stole his wheelchair in the night, putting it upstairs out of his reach. She hadn’t been malicious in her intent. She had wanted to stop him drinking. She’d only succeeded in showing him his own dedication- back then Flash would have done anything for a beer. He’d dragged himself towards the kitchen before Betty had screamed and retrieved his chair, begging for him to see sense.

She hadn’t understood. Flash hadn’t wanted to see anything at all. Nothing worked like beer to cloud the mind.

Getting into the shower wasn’t hard either. The pounding headache kept him focused, he supposed. He took a moment to adjust himself on the fold-down seat in the shower stall, feeling like an old man for not being able to stand- but also like a child. His feet didn’t touch the floor.

Pushing himself back against the tiles, Flash let the chill course down his aching spine and reached to his right to switch the water on. The first few seconds were freezing, but it helped numb his head and wake him up a little better. Then the water melted and he kept his head tilted up into the stream, feeling it wash down over his cheeks, neck and chest. Whenever Flash went for a shower he never looked down.

Redressed and half-sober, Flash noticed his answering machine blinking red numbers at him in the same way the alarm clock had been doing so earlier. He had three new messages. He was prepared to just head out without listening to any of them. They were probably just junk- people trying to sell him things, or the bank. Then he thought there might be a message from the person who brought him home. Or even a drunken message from himself.

Flash sat next to the machine, coat already pulled on over his jumper and jeans wrapped up tight underneath him, and pressed the button with his gloved hands.

The first message was from his mother. A bad start.

“Eugene… Honey, are you there? Where are you, sweetheart? Listen, I heard what happened with Betty… and I know you’re not right yet… You know, from before.” There was a moment of just his mother breathing, sounds clicking behind her and other people speaking. She was at the hospital again. “Your father is asking for you-”

_“Message deleted.”_

Flash didn’t need to listen to the rest of it. It was always the same. She always brought up before, always called him sweetheart and always finished by begging him to come see his father. The old man was dying. The drink had finally gotten to him. Betty always used that in arguments with Flash. You don’t want to end up like your father, do you? Rotting in a hospital bed.

Really, the only bad thing about the whole situation that Flash could find was that as his father lay dying he wasn’t able to stand beside the man’s bed and show him how it felt to be belittled. He had imagined his father dying hundreds of time and none of them ever featured a wheelchair. He had gone to visit once and his father had managed to look down on him from the hospital bed. Even in death the bastard still had more power.

Once the word ‘cripple’ had passed the dying man’s lips no pleads from his mother would get Flash to return.

The second message was from Betty. Getting worse now.

“Hey baby… I talked to your mom earlier. She said you weren’t answering last night. Where were you? I went by your house and the lights were off. Did you go to that stupid bar again?” Her voice became angry- then she seemed to change her mind, taking in a breath and reminding herself that she didn’t care anymore. Flash wasn’t her problem. At least, that’s what Flash assumed the pause was for. “I hope you weren’t… but that’s not why I phoned. Listen- I know he’s never been the best, but he’s your father, Flash. You need to step up and be a man. You’ll regret not seeing him before he dies. You could work out so many things if you’d-”

“ _Message deleted.”_

In Betty’s fantasy world Flash and his father always made up. She didn’t realise that it was never going to be that simple. Flash wasn’t strong enough to apologise, not stupid enough either. Why did Flash have to make the effort? His father had never been kind; never been decent to either his wife or his son.

Flash wanted things to go out with a bang. A fist in his father’s face would be the dream.

But not when he couldn’t even reach the bastard’s face.

The machine rolled onto the final message. Unlike the last two, this was a message Flash had been waiting for in anticipation. For a moment he’d thought it was only going to be his father calling from hospital; calling him a failure. It wouldn’t have been a surprise. He had learnt by experience that things just usually kept getting worse over time. Time was a tormentor, not a healer.

The voice that spoke out from the machine was tight, firm and well trained. It was brief and to the point and Flash could practically hear the man salute.

“We have a mission, Flash. Be ready this Sunday, 0600 hours.”

Another chance to wear the symbiote! This would be the perfect end to a thoroughly shitty week. For a moment Flash’s mood lifted and the sun felt a little bright as it shone in through the grotty curtains of the living room. The beer bottles on the ground created a green glow that made the whole room seem classier.

Then he made the mistake of letting the machine keep talking.

“ _End of new messages... One saved_ message,” the machine informed, allowing a final message to roll out. One that Flash hadn’t yet brought himself to delete.

“Hey, Flash. MJ and I were wondering if you wanted to come to the movies with us? She wants to go see some chick flick. I could use some manly company.” Laughter. “Sorry if I interrupted anything important-just gimmie a call back when you can.”

After his friend’s soft voice trailed off, Flash’s high from the previous call-to-duty message was completely gone. He sat still in the house and felt his heart sink from his throat down through his chest and legs, past the floor board and straight to the dirt where it belonged.  He tried to avoid listening to that message. He hated hearing Peter’s voice- tricking him into believing the other was still alive, condemning him for having been off his face when he was supposed to meet MJ and Peter for that film, for ending up in the gutter.

He remembered that night. He’d woken up in bed and Spiderman had been perched on his windowsill. That was the dream he’d had last night. Spiderman had turned to look at him over his shoulder and told him he was worth more than the alcohol. It all made so much sense now that he knew it had been Peter the whole time. There was a sense of déja-vu too. His stomach felt a little less pained when he thought about it- the new version of Spiderman flying around the city deciding to pick him up off the ground.

But he was still hungry. The store would be open by now.

He looked around the dirty room and decided to focus on a plan to get through his life until Sunday. That was all he had to wait- four days. Then he’d be running, shooting, living, forgetting Peter, ignoring his father. He could already feel the wind through his suit. 48 hours of bliss.

He pushed himself out of the door, twisting behind himself to lock the door and embracing the fresh layer of snow that had fallen in the night. 

~~~~

**Miles: Wake up and obsess**

Miles didn’t sleep at all. He had horrible thoughts about that drunken man… rolling over in his sleep and choking to death on his own vomit. Yes, Miles had gotten him home but he hadn’t stayed to make sure he was alright. He had run away from someone in need. Great hero he was turning out to be.  
  
After another hour of worrying, watching the sun rising behind the curtains and listening to Ganke mutter in his sleep, Miles sat up and decided he’d simply have to go back to the drunken man’s house- and confirm whether he was alive or not.

Just to be on the safe side.


	4. Flash: Get stalked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting in a supermarket

**Flash: Get stalked**

Flash didn’t much mind the extra snow that was littering the streets. In the early hours of the morning the other houses along his street seemed to melt together into one cloud of white. The effect was relaxing and the added silence increased Flash’s good mood. Nobody was going to get in his way today. They weren’t going to send him looks of pity as he rolled past them; they weren’t going to be noisy or arrogant as they drove past in their cars.

He didn’t have much of a rapport with any of his neighbours. They tended to avoid him, sending awkward glances between themselves as he went past. Before Flash had been asked to take part in the Venom Initiative he’d slumped into the sleeping pattern akin to a night-worker. Drinking binges tended to keep him asleep until late afternoon anyway, and less people tended to be around at 5am. It had suited him in every way. If you drank in the afternoon people tended to think you ‘ _had a problem’._

When he’d started working again he’d started going outside more often. This tended to lead to daily awkward encounters with the old woman across the street that was always out watering her plants at the exact time Flash rolled out of his home. He had long suspected that she waited inside her home for him to leave, just to ambush him as he hit the pavement. She was always yelling at him. She had the distinct voice of someone who was deaf- continuing to yell even if he made the effort to cross the street and speak to her.  She got onto him about the state of his garden and the way he looked. She said he let down the neighbourhood, whatever the hell that meant. She seemed personally offended that his lawn wasn’t exactly the right shade of green.

He hated her. He already had a mother. He didn’t need another- especially not one that acted like his father.

Anyway, it didn’t matter today because the old bat was probably still asleep- or fixing her dentures back into her mouth for the long day ahead. Flash might have been missing his legs but at least he still had all his teeth. Every cloud has a silver lining, right?

The snow was sticking to the wheels of his chair. He had made sure to wrap what remained of his legs up properly and even though he was wearing gloves, the metal of his wheelchair was a sharp, cold sting through the material and his shoulders tensed with the extra strength needed to get through a particular lump of snow as he came to the corner of the street.

The store wasn’t very far. Flash could already see the large, obnoxious sign plastered to the front of the building. An employee was outside shovelling the snow into a pile at the edge of the building. At least they were open, Flash thought, pausing and reaching down to scrape the layer of persistent snow from the rubber of his wheels. He brushed his fingers off on his thighs afterwards, tightening the bindings of his jeans and then cupping his fingers in front of his mouth, blowing on them to bring a bit of feeling back. His own breath was warm and moist and hung long enough for the stench to get to him. Shit. He’d forgotten to brush his teeth. His throat stunk like the floor of a club. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been drinking the previous night, but it seemed liked it had been a mix of everything the bar had to offer.

He shook his head, running his hand through his blonde hair to push it back from his face. He’d just refrain from talking to anyone then. It wasn’t like the smell would reach anyone’s nose anyway. Not unless they were only 4 foot tall.

He crossed the road and moved into the convenience store. The rug at the front door managed to scrape off the last few clumps of snow sticking to his wheels as he grabbed a basket from the corner. He positioned it to balance on his thighs and moved over to the frozen food. Flash wasn’t a big fan of cooking. He’d moved his toaster and microwave to rest on the floor so ready meals and bread were his major food groups.

He pulled open the freezer door and grabbed a couple of the value meals at the bottom, throwing them into his basket and feeling the chill seep down into his thighs. He thought he might treat himself to one of the fancier meals but those were always stored at the top of the freezer and he hated having to ask brain-dead employees for help. They always looked at him like they couldn’t understand what the hell he was asking for. As if the chair was just for decoration; as if the rest of his legs were just invisible. 

He pushed back from the fridge and let the store shut, moving out from the freezer section and heading towards the booze. As he turned the corner though he suddenly had the feeling that someone was watching him. He paused and turned slightly in his chair to look around. The store was mostly empty.  A few employees were stacking the shelves or goofing off at the empty cashier desks. There were a few other customers, mostly men on their own like Flash was.

Nobody was looking at him. Flash frowned to himself, because he’d definitely felt the sensation creeping up his neck. He’d been in the army long enough to know when he was being surveyed. Maybe it was just the excitement of finally getting another chance to use the suit… His body playing tricks on him. There certainly didn’t seem to be anyone watching him now.

He turned his head back around but changed the direction he had been heading. The beer could wait for now. He turned left and moved down the next aisle, grabbing the first loaf of bread he came across. He heard the small squeak of shoes coming to a stop just around the corner, just out of his sight. He frowned to himself, because he wasn’t in the mood for this sort of shit right now. If it was some kid playing a fucking prank-!

He turned the corner into the next aisle at a slower pace. He tried to estimate how far away the perpetrator likely was.  If they were following him only when he turned into the next aisle then it would be easy to catch them off guard. They didn’t exactly seem like a professional.

He moved to the end of the aisle and made to turn, waiting until he heard the tell-tale sound of the shoes starting against the lino flooring again. Instead of turning the corner, he pushed his wheelchair into reverse and then stopped abruptly, turning back to look over his shoulder to see what little punk thought it was funny to follow the cripple around today.

Some black kid in a dark blue parka froze midway down the aisle, looking like a deer caught in headlights. The little shit.

Wasn’t it enough that they got to throw him out of bars like he was yesterday’s trash? They had to come bother him whilst he was shopping too? He just wanted to buy some fucking groceries and go home and drink. 

Flash snarled at the boy in front of him.  “What the hell are you playing at?”

~~~~

 

**Miles: Get caught stalking**

Miles froze when he heard the older man speak. It was odd, hearing Flash’s voice without a slur. It was actually a rather nice voice; one that had a sort of drawl to it, like he was fed up.  Miles wished he’d thought to use his camouflage powers but he was still trying to work out the kinks in how to control them. He didn’t want to only hide half of his body. That might really scare somebody- especially depending on which half was the one still showing!

Miles watched the muscles in Flash’s shoulders tense and then suddenly the wheelchair was turning in the middle of the aisle to face him! Miles jumped backwards, hitting the shelves behind him and dislodging several loaves of bread.

“What the hell are you doing following me around, kid?” Flash spat, a frown creasing his blonde eyebrows together.

Miles felt his face go hot at the question and he opened his mouth to spit out an excuse, but he choked on it. Which was a shame because he’d been practising one to himself the whole walk to Flash’s neighbourhood. Instead of coming out with a smooth response he stuttered out, “I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t choked in your sleep!” which, in retrospect, was a very creepy thing to say. It made him realise that he was really starting to border the line between ‘concerned superhero’ and ‘crazed stalker’.

He tried to do some damage control before Flash called the store manager for assistance. “I- uh- I- mean-” Wait. Now that Miles thought about it, how was there any way to do damage control on what he’d said?! ‘Oh, just a lucky guess that I’d known you were completely wasted last night. You look the type’? Miles fumbled again, balling his hands into fists inside his coat pockets. He was kind of hoping that the world would swallow him whole at this point. He didn’t care which half of him was going to be still visible- he just wanted _some_ of him to be able to avoid this whole situation.

He was so stupid! He should have known this wasn’t going to work out. He should have just gone to class. If he turned and ran right now maybe Flash would think it had all been just a very vivid hallucination?

The blonde stared up at him from his chair but for some reason he didn’t seem that angry anymore. His eyebrow was raised. “Excuse me?” he asked, “My own vomit? I think you might be mistaking me for someone else, kiddo.”

Miles blinked and then shook his head, having expected anything except rejection. Anger maybe… But he wasn’t a liar! “No. I’m serious-” he explained, stepping forward and looking down imploringly at the other. “Yesterday I helped you get home? You were really drunk…” He turned his dark eyes away suddenly, ready to lie but not ready for Flash to be able to read him so easily. “You were stuck in the snow, so I pushed you home and helped you get inside…”

He licked his bottom lip nervously, turning back to see Flash’s reaction. The white man was frowning again and Miles suddenly regretted saying anything. Flash had given him an excuse out of the situation and he’d missed it, like a total idiot. He sucked in a breath and tried to think up something else to say. He shifted on his feet, his shoes nudging against the loaves of bread scattered on the ground. Which he’d forgotten about. “Oh, sh-ugar!” he cursed, bending down to grab up several of the loaves at once, trying to cram them back onto the shelf. Facing away from Flash, it was suddenly easier to think of what to say.

He swallowed, “I can see you’re alright now though,” he started with, squishing the loaves to the back of the shelf. “I should probably just get going! I didn’t mean to surprise you. I just wanted to see how you were and I figured you probably didn’t remember me, so I didn’t want to just walk up to you.” He pauses, “But I- ah- I realise that this has probably been a much worse conversation to have. I’m sorry.”

Miles was rambling now, but Flash was still being quiet and it was making the whole situation very awkward for the young boy. He had no idea what to say. He supposed he should just leave after all, but something was keeping him rooted to the spot.

After what felt like forever, Flash shifted in his wheelchair and grunted a noise. “You want anything from the store, kid?” He half-turned his wheelchair, looking back over his shoulder to wait for Miles’ response.

Miles paused and he just stood, very confused, for a moment. “E-excuse me…?” he asked, sure that he’d heard Flash wrong. Maybe he was the one hallucinating. Why would anyone be nice to their stalker? (Not that Miles was a stalker!)

Flash sighed, rolling his eyes. “Anything from the store,” he repeated, “Obviously within reason. I didn’t bring that much cash with me.” Miles just kept staring and Flash continued, “Look, you did me a favour, right? Sorry if I was in a state last night. I don’t know what you were doing wandering around at that time, but obviously I’m thankful if you helped me get home.” The blonde looked down at the grocery basket in his lap, but Miles had the strange sensation that Flash was looking through it to his thighs. “Most people tend to avoid me… when I’m like that.”

Something about the tone of Flash’s voice made Miles think that people avoided Flash even when he wasn’t drunk.

“You weren’t that bad,” Miles felt the need to assure. There was something about Flash’s face that made the hero in Miles ache. He was aware that Flash was clearly a grown man… but his blue eyes were small and sort of deep. They looked like they’d probably seen a lot of scary things in the world. He looked like he needed rescuing just as much as anybody else.

Miles wanted to reassure the other that everything would be okay, even if he wasn’t sure what ‘everything’ meant. He wanted to try his hardest to make sure that he was telling the truth when he said it as well. Heroes never lied.

Flash gave a bitter laugh. “Not that bad?” he repeated. “You go around dealing with a lot of drunken idiots then? You some sort of vigilante?”

Miles eyes widened and he blurted out the most awkward laugh in the universe. “Vigilante? Haha, that’s a good one! Me? Of course… not.” He was the worst superhero in the history of superheroes. Why didn’t he have spidey senses to warn him of awkward social encounters? To warn him that he’d be better off keeping his mouth shut.

Flash looked confused. “I was just joking. No need to piss your pants.”

Miles gave an awkward laugh again. He hoped that Flash didn’t remember pissing himself. He certainly hoped that Flash didn’t remember Miles having to reach into his pocket for his house-keys. That probably wouldn’t go down well in court.

There was a silence between them again before Flash coughed and turned his chair completely around, pushing down the aisle. “So, gonna get yourself something so I can repay my Good Samaritan?”

Miles’ legs felt a little light. Had he really survived that conversation unscathed? Flash didn’t seem angry at him for anything- and he looked like the type of person who usually held grudges.  Miles smiled, elated, and followed after him. “I really don’t need anything, though. I never did it for a reward.”

Flash snorted. “The reward is my favour to you. You don’t need lunch for school or anything?” His eyes looked up and down Miles’ frame and the young boy blushed. He hadn’t gotten dressed into his uniform yet. He had actually planned on skipping school. He hadn’t thought that he’d find Flash so easily.

“I get lunch at school,” Miles explained. “I’m on this scholarship.”

“Oh?” Flash laughed, the corner of his mouth lifting up slightly. “A bit of a smarty pants then?”

Miles wondered if he could die from blushing too much in one day. “No. It was sort of a lucky dip thing…” he corrected.

“You sure you’re not just being bashful? You seem like a clever kid. Although- I don’t know many clever kids that are out in the middle of the night helping drunken wasters get back home,” Flash laughed.

Miles knew he was laughing at himself and he made a noise at the back of his throat. “You’re not a waster…”

Flash turned to look at him. There was another silence, but this time it didn’t feel awkward at all. Miles didn’t turn away, because if he turned away then it would be like he was abandoning the statement. He didn’t want Flash to think he was a waster. It seemed to Miles that maybe Flash had enough people telling him what a waste of space he was. He needed someone to tell him he was worth more. “I think you just had too much to drink, is all.”

Flash was frowning again, but not in a mean way. It was almost thoughtful. Miles stepped back slightly. “I should probably get to school…” he trailed off. There was that feeling again. Like he didn’t want to go. Something in the back of his head was screaming at him to stay. It was like, if he left, Flash might get into some kind of trouble. He was sober now, but who was going to be there to keep him sober? Who was going to keep him safe? His house had looked like Flash was the only occupant.

“Wait,” Flash said, and Miles was glad. “Do you get those school lunch things at the weekend? I haven’t got any plans on Saturday if you’re free? We could go for lunch somewhere? Nothing fancy, nothing weird. I know you probably get told not to go off with strangers or whatever, but I ain’t exactly going to be able to kidnap you.” He tapped the edge of his wheelchair as if to explain. “I just feel like I should repay you for helping me.”

Miles smiled. Maybe it was a bad idea to accept the offer but then again, it might be one of the best decisions he’d ever make.  Flash seemed like a nice guy. He was probably lonely too. Miles didn’t know if he had any friends or family. He thought that, if Flash did, then his apartment would have been cleaner and he would drink less. Maybe Miles could really make a difference.

“Sure.”


End file.
